


Tired Hearts

by bobs



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Angst, Episode Tag, F/M, Post 5x09, Spoilers, Working Out My Feelings Through Fic, olicity - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 10:32:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8887522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bobs/pseuds/bobs
Summary: Post 5x09. Beware - spoilers and angst ahead!
Swallowing, she takes a hesitant step into the loft. It feels like she doesn’t really have the right to be here. To be safe, and healthy, and alive.
When he isn’t.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I've rewritten this a bunch of times but I feel like I just need to get it out there and stop looking at it. I started writing it right after the episode aired... There were many things I questioned while watching that I just needed to work out through writing. I generally don't do episode tags but this one just needed to be written. Also - I definitely do not enjoy Oliver's choice at the end of the episode, however I tried to keep this as in-canon as possible.

When she arrives back at the loft, after she’s firmly shut the door in Thea’s concerned face, she just stands in the entryway and looks around. At the kitchen, where she and Billy had halfheartedly argued mere hours ago. At the stairs, which Oliver had carried her up and down countless times, solid and sure. At the living room, where her mother had excitedly discovered a ring less than a year ago.

Her head aches.

Her heart aches.

It’s been a year.

In some ways, it feels like less. Like it was only yesterday that she and Oliver stood in front of a brightly lit Christmas tree and he proclaimed that she was the one who lights his way.

And in others, it feels like it’s been ages. Centuries. Because making the choice to destroy Havenrock, and its repercussions, seem to be an ingrained part of her life now. As though she’s never lived any other way but bent and broken and hidden.

And today,

God, today has just…

Swallowing, she takes a hesitant step into the loft. It feels like she doesn’t really have the right to be here. To be safe, and healthy, and _alive_.

When he isn’t. Billy.

It’s her fault. She knows that. Her fault and Prometheus’ fault, whoever they may be. Together they’d led Billy to his demise. And Oliver…

Inside of her, deep inside, she knows that it’s not his fault. Remembering the slump of his shoulders, the pure devastation that had radiated out of him, she’d known from the moment he stepped into the bunker that he’d failed. That although he’d promised her that he would bring Billy back, he hadn’t been able to do so.

But to hear him say he’d killed him… had been a punch to the gut. She hadn’t believed him at first, but Oliver isn’t a very good an actor and the tears clinging to his eyelashes as he stared at her with desperation and honesty in his eyes told her the truth. It was a sick charade set up by a psychopath that had ended up with her losing yet another person, another man, that she cared about.

When her thoughts start to spiral in a direction she can’t quite handle right now, she violently kicks off her shoes and takes the stairs at a near run, shedding her clothes as fast as humanly possible. She needs to get clean. _Be_ clean, because the guilt is threatening to drown her if she lets it.

The bathroom fills with steam as the water runs. She stands, naked, in front of the vanity - double sinks, so useless now that she’s only one person - fingers clenched tightly on the edge of the marble countertop. Watches as her knuckles turn white, as her fingers try to break one of the earth’s most solid surfaces. Anger swirls inside of her, mixed with a healthy portion of grief and guilt.

Why does this always happen to her? Is there something, somehow, deeply ingrained into her biology that makes everybody leave her? Billy hadn’t left, but they’d fought and it had felt like more than just a disagreement… Like things were starting to unravel from the tightly wound web she’s created since things fell apart the first time. It was likely only a matter of time before he would have left too, and she’d be alone again.

But at least he would have been alive, she tells herself. If she’d just been up front with him and given him all the facts, instead of hoarding them to herself and trying to keep him completely separate from Team Arrow, maybe he wouldn’t have been there alone. Maybe he’d be alive right now. Maybe she wouldn’t feel like she’s teetering on the edge of completely falling apart, as her carefully assembled life is unwoven thread by thread.

Forcing her fingers to relax their death grip, she takes a shaky step back from the mirror, refusing to raise her eyes to her reflection. She steps into the glass-walled stall and lets the water rain over her. It stings her skin, turning it pink with the heat of it, and she lets her head drop to her chest.

How could she let this happen? How is this even possible? Oliver, _her Oliver_ , killed Billy. Not by choice because that’s not something she can even fathom happening, but it’s still a fact. He killed him and she pushed Billy away and into the line of fire. He’s dead and she’s alive and it should be most definitely be the other way around because he was a good person. He did good things, he protected people and took care of them and-

She looks down, startled, at her throbbing hand. The pain radiates down her arm, a tingling twinge that makes her eyes well and something dark rise in her chest. Did she- she’s never hit anything before. Not really, not with her bare hands, and nothing besides a punching bag during the rare training session. But the pain in her hand somehow makes the pain in her chest ease. Just slightly, but it’s enough that she can almost breathe again, and so she drives her fist into the solid wall of the shower again.

There are so many dark feelings churning inside of her, even more than before, and they just need to escape somehow and now her hand is throbbing and her knuckles are red and nasty. She feels like it’s somehow what she deserves because at least it’s a physical manifestation of all the pain she’s feeling inside.

When her skin in pink, and the water stings her knuckles, she turns off the shower and dries off. Pulling on clothes without much thought, she shuffles back to the living room, scraping her hair into a meagre ponytail as she goes.

And then she stands. Just stands in the middle of the room, lost.  
 What does she do now?

What does someone do when their ex-fiance kills their current boyfriend due to nefarious psychopathic plots?

A watery, choking sound escapes her chest, that she thinks might have been a laugh and then the guilt bubbles up again because what right does she have to laugh? To be amused, when everything has gone terribly wrong?

Her phone dings form far away, from wherever she left it. In her pocket? Her purse? It’s strange that it’s not attached to her hand, but the absolute last thing that she wants is to talk to anybody. To have them attempt to comfort her, to sympathize with her, when she doesn’t deserve any of it. 

The reality that she can’t ignore surges up, until it’s larger than life, staring her in the face.

She hadn’t loved him. Billy. 

Curled up on the couch, refusing to acknowledge it’s past memories, she lets the thought unfurl inside of her, like a newly formed butterfly opening its wings. When she does, the guilt sets in, sinking it’s claws into her, but she feels a bit lighter. Arms wrapped around her knees, she stares out into nothing, and lets the thoughts roll over her.

Is that why she feels this dark, twisty guilt inside of her? Because he’d loved her and she’d simply cared for him? 

She’d tried. God she’d tried so hard, so determined to move on, to be normal. But she hadn’t been able to love him, to stop loving Oliver as much as she told herself, told him, told anyone who would listen that the door was closed. Locked. 

Maybe if she said it enough times it would come true.

But no.

A tiny part of her desperately clings to him. To Oliver and the love that they shared. The love that she still feels for him, that she wants him to feel for her. But she’s scared. Scared to try again, scared to be hurt again.

Billy was normal. Safe. Their relationship was easy. Simple.

Oliver had asked her, weeks ago, if it was real. If what she and Billy had was real. And she hadn’t been able to answer, didn’t know what to tell him. 

But now she knows. Because this feeling deep inside of her, this guilt and hurt and pain swirled into darkness, it’s nothing, _nothing_ , compared to the yawning pit of despair that she’d felt when they all believed Oliver was dead. When she’d been singularly focused on finding him and had been faced with the reality of a bloody sword handed to her by Malcolm Merlyn.

The realization only makes her feel worse, makes her stomach cramp because Billy’s dead, and it’s because of her and if she’d never brought him into her darkness than he would probably be alive right now.

Tears slip silently down her cheeks. She doesn’t move to wipe them away, clutching her throbbing hand with the other, pulling her knees to her body as though she can hold herself together.

When her phone rings again, her chest stupidly lifts. Just for a moment, she considers answering. And then, immediately she shakes her head. 

She just wants to be alone. 

***

Oliver leaves the bunker in a daze. Everyone else was gone, to their families, to their homes. He’d sat frozen like a statue until his joints felt numb, until his mind grew slushy and blank. Until he could stand to be himself right now.

To tell the truth, he still can’t.

He knows that she’s hurting. The idea of her hurting because of _him_ makes something deep inside of him clench in pain. The last thing he’s ever wanted to do is hurt her, but it seems to be all he does. Loving her, being with her has only brought her pain.

The streets of Starling are dark and cold, but he doesn’t notice. He’s not even sure how he got here. Or where here is. 

Looking around, he belatedly takes in the buildings, the glowing alcove that is oh so familiar, and wants to kick himself. Why is he here? He is the absolute last person that she’ll want to see. Felicity hates crying, hates grieving in front of anybody. Including him. Although for a brief time, he recalls, he’d been allowed inside the inner walls she’s constructed around her heart.

Without thinking, he scales the balconies. Now that he’s here, he just needs to see her. Needs to see that she’s okay. Know that she’s okay. He lands silently on their balcony, the same one where they’d stood together weeks ago. He’d asked her if it was real, his heart in his stomach because if she said yes he wasn’t sure exactly what he would do. But she’d bitten her bottom lip and shook her head slowly and told him she didn’t know. 

A part of him had latched on to her answer. A tiny part, but a part nonetheless. He respected her wishes though. He stood back and watched her be with another man. He attempted to go on a date with another woman. It all felt like less. 

But he’d tried. He’s trying.

And it’s gotten them here.

He doesn’t move, just looks into the loft, searching for her intently. He finds her curled up on the couch and the sight of her tears hit him like a punch to the gut. 

She’s clearly not okay and he’s not okay either because what happened was his fault. Felicity might not blame him, and a part of him is bewildered, but insanely grateful, because if she blamed him, if she thought he’d meant it, that it was his fault, he’s not sure they could ever come back from that. But it still feels like this is all his fault.

It was Prometheus. He realizes that, he acknowledges it as she takes shuddery breaths. He desperately wants to go to her, to gather her up in his arms and press his lips to her forehead. But he also realizes that Prometheus was right. Everyone around him does die or get hurt. And while Digg’s words had soothed him and he desperately doesn’t want to be alone, a part of him thinks that he deserves to be.

So he doesn’t make a sound. He doesn’t knock or otherwise move. He just lets his soul rest as he watches her drag her computer onto her lap. Watches as her shoulders shake while she reads the screen. When she eventually shoves it to the side, he can make out Billy’s name on the screen. News moves fast.

She stumbles to her feet and he takes a step forward without even thinking about it, but she’s facing away from him and disappears into the bathroom while he curses himself and slips back into the shadows.

He should leave. He knows that it’s wrong of him to be here, watching her without her knowing. It’s stalker-y behaviour and he can almost hear her voice in his head, berating him for acting weird.

She hasn’t teased him like that in months though. Since before Darhk and Havenrock and the breakup. It’s been a long time since he’s seen her smile. Really smile.

He perks up when she reappears, with reddened knuckles that immediately draw his attention. She can’t seem to stop staring at them either as she curls herself back into the same corner of the couch, staring unseeingly into nothing, cheeks wet and face pale.

Heart clenching, he wants so badly to be near her. He just wants to be in there, with her. To even be in the same room, sitting on the same couch, breathing the same air. She’s the only person that he thinks he could possibly be around right now, but that’s not even fair to her. Anyone close to him is in danger and it’s not right for him to be here, putting her even further in Prometheus’ crosshairs.

So, reluctantly, he takes a step back. And then another. She doesn’t look up, doesn’t move aside from her chest rising and falling unevenly.

His own throat is thick with emotion and his fingers close around the cold metal of the balcony railing. It’s solid against his back, and as much as he tries to force himself to look away, to leave, to move, he can’t seem to make his body cooperate.

Instead he stays there, hidden in the shadows, keeping watch over her until she falls into a fitful sleep, still curled up on the couch.

**Author's Note:**

> Reviews and kudos make my day!


End file.
